Beds Are Meant for Two
by Scribbler
Summary: [one shot] It's funny, the things you think about when it's three in the morning, and your brain won't shut up and go to sleep. [Jubilee fic]


**Disclaimer –** If I owned any of the characters, do you really think I'd be writing this?

**A/N –** Iunno. I just write the stuff. I don't pretend to understand it, or where it comes from.

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_Beds Are Meant For Two_

**© Scribbler, August 2005.**

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Jubilee's bed at home is bigger than the one in her room at the Institute. Not quite as soft, and no eiderdown quilt, just masses of blankets because her foster mother never throws anything out if it's still 'got wear in it'. Her bed is big enough for two, big enough for another body beside her. She's kicked off the blankets but not the sheet, and it, too, is big enough to cloak another body without leaving her cold and exposed.

The house is far too quiet. She's used to far away noises, strange sounds that became familiar once she learned what they were. The distant 'bamf' of a 'port to the fridge. Creaky floorboards as Logan made his last check of the rooms. Strained giggles when trips to the bathroom found a line already there. Jamie pattering to get fresh sheets, a clone already spiriting the old ones to the washing machine. This house feels empty, lonely, even though her foster parents are just down the hall.

She doesn't resent them bringing her home. Not anymore. She is nothing if not realistic, and after the initial rage she can understand and even appreciate how much they care about her to worry so.

Once, a few days after she finished unpacking, she came downstairs to where they sat huddled together on the couch with the lights off and the news on TV. It must have been how they looked when the reports of the explosion were on, when they didn't know if she was alive or dead. Her stomach twists when she thinks of it now, because she may not _love _them, but she at least respects them, and throughout that whole chaos she didn't think about them until Sam mentioned his Pa working underground in the pits.

She turns over. Saturday tomorrow. Probably another shopping trip, to help her acclimatise to their new neighbourhood. They moved so she wouldn't be recognised anymore. Everyone at the last place knew she went to Xavier's for a while. The shed got torched six months after she came back. Damn decent of her foster parents, really, but she wishes she could just sleep in. She's acclimatised enough already and the clock already reads 3:15.

It's weird. She expected to miss all of Xavier's. And she does, just not in the way she thinks she's supposed to. Remembering is like playing a favourite old song in her head – fun but not quite there, and she can't play it to other people if they haven't already heard it for themselves.

Here in the dark, small in her huge bed, it all seems very near to her skin; snatches of memory scraping the fine hairs on her arms until they stand upright.

When they first arrived, the New Recruits didn't gel very well. They stumbled and fell and yelled at each other a lot. There were catfights, some damaged property, several groundings and more. It wasn't until later that Jubilee realised the X-Men had also been like that when they started. Then she wanted to wipe those stupid, condescending little looks off their faces when they came to training sessions to help out.

Some were better than others – Jean always made a point of saying how she'd messed up just like them, but it was hollow coming from her because she was just so … Jean. She tried so hard to make them believe, but they still just saw her as _Jean_. Watching them, seeing them learn that they weren't really defects after all, Rogue sometimes got a look in her eyes that said, "Yeah, I know how that feels," but she never put it into words, which was almost just as bad.

They learned to tolerate each other. Some friendships were formed. But they never gelled as a team, not even at the end. Scott had to marshal them into the DR to save their skins. They couldn't even do _that _by themselves.

Her bed blew up along with everything else. It wasn't as big as this one, so two was a bit of a squash, but somehow it never mattered. Ghost hands along her skin, the reminiscence of touch. Never more than touching, though – the tentative feel of skin on skin. She discovered she liked the back of her neck stroked in that bed.

Without consciously thinking about it, one hand slips inside the bedclothes and under her nightshirt to cup her left breast. She thinks they're too small – great for gymnastics, but crap when you want to fill out a halter-neck or a ballgown. There's a dance at her school next month. A boy in science class wants to ask her, she knows. She doesn't like science too much. Next year it gets spilt into Chemistry, Biology and Physics, but for now it's just 'science'. That boy wants to do Chemistry. He's not bad looking. A little skinny, maybe, but he has very serious eyes. Old eyes. She might even say yes when he asks. She thinks about his unsmiling mouth and unruly hair as she tugs at her nipples until they harden.

There's no gymnastics team at this school, but there's a cheerleading squad, and nobody knows she's a mutant. No beam or vault anymore, but lots of floor work. She misses the parallel bars most – used to work out on Kurt's rig – but maybe she can convince her foster father to put something up in the garage.

Janine, head of the squad, says she's got good bone structure. She never let herself get flabby at the Institute, even when Logan let them have time off or made them work different muscles. Janine has pale skin and blonde hair she always wears in two plaits piled on top of her head. As her fingers trace lower, sliding over her taut belly, Jubilee wonders what it would be like to pull Janine's hair free of its restraints. Would it tumble loosely around her shoulders, or would it snag and have to be combed through? Did Janine like having her hair touched?

Rahne always liked having her hair brushed by someone else. She used to joke about it being a throwback of her power when she sat cross-legged on the floor while Jubilee sat on a chair. Sometimes there were scrunchies and brightly coloured hair slides involved. Always the hard brush with the plastic bristles. "I have a hard head," she said when Jubilee asked if it hurt. Her scalp always looked red and sore afterward, but she insisted she felt nothing. Every now and then they sat in the Rec. Room and watched a movie, and when Jubilee got engrossed Rahne would bump against her fingers with her head to get her moving again. Rahne's hair was deceptively soft, considering how it spiked out in those little pigtails.

Jubilee's pubic hair is coarse. She runs it through her fingers. Funny, she thinks, that in those slushy romance novels they never mention how nasty pubic hair feels. Or maybe it's just her own that's gross. Maybe everyone else has soft waves instead of tight black curls.

The changing rooms after cheer practise are smelly and full of steam. Unlike Bayville High, her new school has a full complement of communal showers, but they don't force the girls to use them. She assumes it's the same for the boys – although that weird macho thing might make them shower together anyway, even if they don't want to.

Ray was never backward about coming forward. He told her once, in one of those quiet conversations in the boathouse that only happened a handful of times, how guys were always worried about the size of their penises compared to others.

"Are you?" she'd asked.

"Fuck off," he'd replied, and taken a long drag on his illicit cigarette. Ray liked to make out he was dangerous. Part of that was him smelling of smoke most the time and getting collared by Logan even more. He wore his punishment details like a badge of honour.

Jubilee isn't _worried _about comparing her breasts to others. She certainly isn't going to go under the knife or anything to change them. They're small. It's a fact, like saying the sky is blue, or her sneakers are white underneath all that grime. Speaking of which, she needs to stuff those in the washing machine soon. She has lots from all the Saturday shopping trips, but she tends to wear one pair into the ground and then move on to another. It's easier to practise handsprings and flick-flacks in shoes that don't pinch.

Her underwear bunch up as she wriggles out of them, so she just leaves them around her calves. They're bright purple. Not a thong, though. She can't understand wanting to walk around all day feeling like someone gave you a wedgie.

Tabby never locked the door to the bathroom while she was in it. Many were the times other girls walked in on her. Fortunately for Jubilee it was only while she was either showering or weighing herself on the bathroom scales. Tabby wore thongs with glitter patterns on the front and words like 'You Wish' in bubble font. She also had a butterfly tattoo on her left buttock. God knows how she got it. Probably used some of that fake ID she used to buy cigarettes and beer – when she wasn't lifting it. Tabby was okay, good for a laugh and never kicked you while you were down, but some of the stunts she pulled made even Jubilee wince, or blush, or both.

A few weeks before her dad turned up and Tabby left, Jubilee accidentally opened the door to the first floor girls' bathroom just as Tabby was stepping out of the shower. She was naked from the waist up, grubbing about for a towel to wrap her hair in, breasts swinging as she leaned over. Genetics had been kind to Tabby, giving her curves and swells where Jubilee was all sharp angles and straight lines. When she saw Jubilee gawking in the doorway she laughed – actually laughed! – and shoved her breasts together with the palms of her hands.

"See something you like?"

Jubilee wonders what it _would _have been like to touch them. She wonders what they would have felt like. Tabby always struck her as soft under all that make-up and attitude. Soft as nettle leaves. She should have had a better response than just blushing and slamming the door, at least. It made Tabby laugh, but she never took _anything _seriously.

There's a girl in the cheer squad who hangs to the back a lot, keeps fantasy novels in her locker, and probably thinks that once upon a time taking lip gloss from the make-up stacks in Sears without paying is living dangerously. Her name is Bebe, and she's absolutely tiny. Always stands near the top of the pyramid, balancing on other girls' shoulders. Because they're both light and pick stuff up quickly, Jubilee often finds herself chugging water on the bench next to her while Janine bawls out the others for not learning quick enough.

Sometimes Jubilee realises she's been talking away for ages without even a hint of reaction, and when she lowers her bottle and looks at Bebe she sees a strange look in her huge, liquid brown eyes. Bebe has what the drama teacher calls 'expressive' eyes, but which Logan would say show too much.

Logan never liked showing too much, his face always schooled into a frown as angular as Jubilee's hips – except when it wasn't.

Jubilee knows, in those moments, that if she were to put down her water, cup Bebe's face and kiss her on the lips, the other girl would probably squeak and bolt, but would be waiting for her later and probably kiss back this time.

But Bebe's tiny, and shows too much in her eyes, and sort of reminds Jubilee of Jamie. Jamie sent out vibes that pleaded for protection, even when he said he was too grown up to be babied. He was crap at keeping the façade going, too. He cried first when the Institute crumbled above their heads.

As she gasps and arches a little, Jubilee can't help but think of Ryan, the drama club nerd. He kind of looks like Bobby in his eyes and the way his cheeks crinkle when he smiles. Of course, he can't make little ice ballerinas, or instantly cool her drink for her, but he tastes like mint chewing gum, and if she squints a bit she can pretend he's someone else. He hasn't asked her to the dance yet, and she's not sure if he's going to, or if she even wants him to. There's links between past and present, and then there's letting go and rebuilding what you've got.

A couple of nights ago Xavier's was on the news. She doesn't know what for. She changed the channel before they could say.

When she's finished she tugs her panties back on and turns over, a little breathless, and wishes there was warmth against her back and someone to stroke the back of her neck.

Her foster parents think she's just getting into this kind of stuff. They haven't tried to give her The Talk yet. Ororo already took care of that, anyway. As the only female staff member, it was expected of her to sit the girls down and talk at them about sex and relationships, even though she hadn't had so much as a date in the last forever.

"Being safe isn't just contraception and protecting against sexually transmitted diseases. It's about choosing the right person and knowing when you're ready. Not just thinking you are – _knowing_ it. There's a difference."

Jubilee wishes she'd been around a little longer, just so she could see what happened between the others who 'knew' they were ready. All those raging hormones. All that sexual tension. It was so thick it made you feel like you were breathing the air in chunks. Maybe then she could laugh like Tabby about it. Or maybe she'd just have had it trickle to her down the grapevine, perhaps through Rahne as she sat on the floor and had her hair brushed.

It's going to be Saturday morning proper in a few hours. The night draws in around Jubilee, pressing close as a lover nibbling her neck. She sits up and holds her hands out in front of her, palm up. One small fizzle and her room is lit by a flickery glow that shifts between green, red and yellow. She's been working on her powers, mainly so she can use them like this. Alone in her own bedroom she can be who she wants; mutant, human, social pariah, dutiful daughter, wild child, _whatever_.

The dancing lights aren't much, but they're something else, something different. She would be able to fall asleep like this, surrounded by only her own future – no old ghosts, no distant memories.

But of course, she can't. Because she has to make the glow. Which means she'd have to stay awake.

To totally embrace her future means totally giving up her past.

And she just can't sleep that way.

This bed is big enough for two.

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FINIS.

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End file.
